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More Than Just Mum
Rebecca Smith
The perfect antidote to a chaotic world, More Than Just Mum will have you crying with laughter Hannah Thompson loves her family beyond words… but sometimes she wishes they would recognise her as more than just ‘mum’. Eldest son Dylan is soon to be flying the nest, sixteen-year-old Scarlet keeps asking about penalties for worryingly specific crimes, they’ve forgotten world book day and Benji absolutely will not be Where’s Wally again, and it’s at least two days before she and hubby Nick can sit down for Wine Wednesdays… and even longer until Fizzy Friday. Determined to find herself a job that she loves, earn a whole lot of money and to have her teenagers respect her as ‘Hannah’ as well as ‘mum’; it might sound like a tall order, but she’s a mum on a mission. A laugh-out-loud read of self-discovery, family chaos and love. Perfect for fans of Gill Sims, Fiona Gibson and Nick Spalding. What readers are saying about More Than Just Mum: ‘Funny, realistic and totally relatable, I raced through this book as I couldn’t wait to see what would happen next!’ Reader review ‘I absolutely adored this book! Hannah has got to be one of my top favourite fictional characters in the world… a book that makes you fall in love with reading all over again. ’ ‘A great light-hearted lively read that many women will relate to!’ Reader review ‘I absolutely loved this funny, easy to read, feel good book… a book that left you with a smile and great feeling of well being. ’ Reader review ‘This book was so funny and had me laughing so much that my dog was woken up and was not impressed. ’ Reader review ‘A highly enjoyable read that had me laughing out load more often than not… hysterical, and Hannah's engaging voice will have you rooting for her until the very end. ’ Reader review ‘Loved it!! The people are believable in such a way that they could be you or your neighbours. So many good things with this book!!’ Reader review ‘Enjoyed from beginning to end’ Reader review
More Than Just Mum
REBECCA SMITH
Published by ONE MORE CHAPTER
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © Rebecca Smith 2019
Cover Design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com (http://Shutterstock.com)
Rebecca Smith asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © December 2019; ISBN: 9780008370169
Version: 2019-08-30
Table of Contents
Cover (#u79383be3-d340-599d-a758-848afa41c1af)
Title Page (#u53359f41-f889-58e7-b7a7-eb2dfb6b4eeb)
Copyright (#u4bddf035-bb9a-5b53-9a5c-bf607e4fb32b)
Dedication (#u5a9d202a-cf95-56bd-b772-187aa710c0a1)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Acknowledgements
About the Publisher
For Polly.
May women everywhere have a friend as supportive, strong and bloody hilarious as you. xxx
Chapter 1 (#ue0cac415-70d9-531a-b900-8f1192db46ee)
The first question is stupid and illogical. It is also highly personal. I pause for a moment, unsure about whether I should really be doing this. But there’s nobody else here, and I am on a break. It’s not as if what I’m doing is illegal or anything.
Returning to the question, I chew the end of my pencil and mull over the multiple-choice answers.
A) Eight or more times a week. Well, that’s obviously ridiculous. It’s clearly been added as the amusing option. That’s more than once a day. Who on earth has the time for that? Or the inclination, when it comes to it?
B) Up to five times a week. Possibly, when I was in my early twenties and didn’t have anything better to be doing; like the laundry or preparing the next day’s packed lunches or catching up on Netflix or sleeping.
C) Two or three times a week. Now we’re moving away from the fantastical and heading into the realms of reality. But honestly, whoever wrote this question needs a good talking to. There is a world of difference between twice a week and three times a week – ask anyone. Twice a week is enough to feel smugly adequate. Three times a week is pushing it a bit, but perfectly possible if there’s been a birthday or it’s Christmas or a bank holiday.
D) Less than once a week. Again, this is impossible to answer without being more specific. Which week am I meant to be basing my answer on? If it’s the weeks after I gave birth then the answer is a resounding D. If it’s the week that Nick surprised me with a romantic trip to Devon then I can circle B with confidence. Or am I supposed to be taking a mean average over the course of one year?
I scan my eyes across the page, searching for advice. But other than the questions and the screamingly large quiz title, there’s nothing.
The end-of-break bell rings and hundreds of feet start pounding down the corridor. I’m not teaching for the next hour, but I keep my eyes fixed on the classroom door, just in case a hapless Year Seven takes a wrong turn. I don’t need anyone to catch me in the act of reading the magazine that I confiscated from Elise in Year Nine during the last lesson. And I am probably old enough to identify my own areas of sexual competence without taking a quiz entitled ‘Are You A Sex Goddess?’. But I’ve started now and I’m feeling curious about what the verdict will be.
Dissatisfied with the choices, and wishing that there was a ‘once or twice a week’ category, I recklessly break with tradition and circle both C and D. Then I move onto the next question.
Which of these positions is your favourite?
Good god. The list of answers reads like a cocktail menu. I haven’t heard of any of them, never mind having an actual preferred position. Flicking back to the front cover, I look again at the title of the magazine. Surely Elise has got her hands on some kind of black-market, top-shelf publication and I should be handing this straight to the Headteacher? This kind of question is completely unsuitable for girls of her age.
Magazines and their content have clearly moved on from my day; this is definitely aimed at the teenage market. Or maybe they haven’t moved on. Maybe it’s me. I do remember poring over magazines with sketch drawings showing the ‘Position of the Week’ and sniggering with my friends. But that seemed more innocent somehow, like it was a serving suggestion rather than an assumption that we were all getting it on at every available moment.
I ignore the second question and move onto the next, which rather intrusively wants to know how many sexual partners I’ve had. Interestingly, zero is not an option – I suppose that’s because the quiz writers assume that one needs to have actually had sex in order to identify whether one is, in fact, a sexual goddess. Answer A is a bit alarming though. I wouldn’t have thought anyone would have the energy to have that many different liaisons, and I feel a grudging respect for the sheer work ethic that must be required. I look down the list towards the more sedate numbers, while running my own experiences through my head.
It doesn’t take that long. I was a late developer, and a combination of worry about how my body looked and terror about getting pregnant meant that I waited until I’d left home and gone to university, where quite frankly, it was relief to get the whole first-time thing out of the way. And no, there were no fireworks and the earth didn’t move and the sky did not fall in. Instead, I spent the entire time wondering where I was supposed to put my legs and trying to politely ask if he could take his elbow off my hair because I thought that there was a risk of me getting scalped, which wasn’t really what I’d envisaged from the whole affair. And yes, it got better after that (or maybe I got better after that) and there were several longer-term boyfriends, one of whom I remember fondly and the other two who have been consigned to my he-whose-name-must-not-be-spoken list.
So, five if I include Nick, which of course I should, because we’ve been married forever and that counts, surely? That doesn’t seem too shoddy or too promiscuous. I can live with five.
Circling answer C (which is slightly disappointing as I’d have thought five partners would place me slightly higher up the scoreboard than that) I read on.
How good are you at undoing a belt?
Ha! Now this is the kind of question that was written for me. I am the queen of undoing belts, thanks to the fact that my irresponsible family are constantly putting their dirty jeans and trousers in the laundry basket with the belts still attached. I can sort whites from darks and unbutton shirts and whip belts out from trouser loops with my eyes closed. I am an expert.
Except I have clearly overestimated my skills. The options suggest that there are women out there whose talents at belt removal far exceed my own pathetic offerings. No, I cannot undo a belt with my teeth. I can’t think of a single time that I would wish to do so. Doing it with my eyes closed is actually answer B, which gives me a brief thrill of achievement – but then I read on and see that it’s only eligible if I have done a sexy pole dance first. The image of me strutting my stuff as I sort through the day’s washing pile makes me snort.
I whizz through the remaining questions, revealing my most personal secrets, tot up my total points and turn the page to discover my fate. And it was just as I suspected all along. I am Hannah Thompson, Ultimate Sex Goddess: all lesser mortals bow down before my sultry and provocative nature.
I’m lying. My score puts me in the bottom league. Instead of achieving the heady heights of ‘Sex on Legs’, I am firmly placed in the ‘Could Try Harder’ category. I think the pun is intended but it’s difficult to know for sure.
Standing up, I head towards the door. If I’m quick I’ve got time to pop to the staffroom and grab a coffee before the next session of riot-control-slash-listening-to-new-and-innovative-homework-excuses.
I drop the magazine in the recycling bin as I walk past, wishing that I could abandon my slightly dented ego just as easily. Not that it matters. It’s just a stupid quiz and it doesn’t mean anything. I bet virtually every woman my age would get the same result that I did. There are far more important things in life than sex, and I’m sure that if I took a quiz called ‘How Nice Are You?’ or ‘How Efficient Are You?’ then I’d totally score in the top percentile.
I would on the efficiency quiz, anyway. I am very well organised. The jury would probably be hung on their verdict as to whether I’m nice. All they’d be able to say for sure is that since I’ve been doing this job, I appear to be getting less nice by the day.
Chapter 2 (#ue0cac415-70d9-531a-b900-8f1192db46ee)
Taylor Swift is admonishing me as I stumble into the room, my arms laden with yet another load of laundry. She informs me, in her dulcet tones, that she knew I was trouble when I walked in, which I think is fairly rude when all I’m doing is attempting to navigate from the kitchen door to the washing machine while avoiding the obstacles that my youngest child, Benji, and Dogger, the dog, have kindly put in place. Clearly they both felt that I needed the extra challenge.
‘Scarlet, can you please turn your phone off and set the table?’ I step nimbly over a skateboard. ‘Benji! Clear your stuff away now.’
Taylor segues into her next song like the professional that she is, asking me why I had to rain on her parade.
It is my lot as a mother, Taylor, I tell her silently. It’s just what I do. So if you’ve organised some kind of parade, or perhaps a party, then you can be fairly sure that I’m not going to like it. Especially if there will be boys or alcohol involved. And judging from your song lyrics, Ms Swift, I believe that there is a high possibility of that.
‘Hello, people!’ Dylan bounds into the room, throwing his arms out like Hugh Jackman in The Greatest Showman. ‘I am here!’
‘Congratulations for you,’ snarls Scarlet, finally turning off the music. ‘I’ve been here for the last sixteen years but I don’t make a song and dance about it.’
She does, though. In the last six months especially, Scarlet has started behaving as if her life is some kind of dramatic theatre production. And clearly, this particular production requires a lot of tortured expressions, self-introspection and extended monologues.
Dylan strolls across to his sister and flings his arm around her shoulder. ‘That’s because you’re just not as special as I am,’ he says, pulling a sad face. ‘But don’t worry, little sis. I’m here for you.’
Scarlet gives him an almighty shove in the chest and he staggers backwards, narrowly avoiding Benji, who is attempting to remove his skateboard (as per my instructions) by putting Dogger on top and pushing her along.
I ram the washing into the machine and straighten up, sniffing the air. It smells suspiciously like burnt sausages.
‘Has anyone checked the oven?’ I politely enquire. ‘Because I’m pretty sure that I asked you all to keep an eye on the cooking while I sorted out the laundry.’
